


we fit together like a jelly donut and a decorated officer of the amestrian military

by ang3lba3, Mellomailbox



Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [9]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Crying, Dom Roy Mustang, Dom/sub, Edward Elric Swears, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masochistic Edward Elric, Military Kink, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Rough Sex, Roy Mustang/Spam, Self Directed Kinkshaming, Smut, Sub Drop, Sub Edward Elric, ed says no but doesn't safeword/it's part of the scene, roy didn't have informed consent on sub drop, they're doing their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: Ed loses the game, which means that Roy gets to choose the fantasy they play out. Roy totally cheated at the game, but a win is a win is a win.And then Roy chooses Ed's fantasy.Excerpt:“Edward,” he says, (why isn’t he saying Fullmetal, fucking bitch,) “you are a lot of things. You’re beautiful, intelligent,delectable --but good? You, darling, arenot that.”And ya know what, like, fuck it. Time to throw down the gauntlet. Make itreal fucking clearwhat he wants out of this. His breathing goes shallow, and he can hear it, how it clips his words short and breathy andwanting.It’s gross. Roy’s into gross stuff, though. “Maybe I just need a good teacher, Colonel.”
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, mentioned Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell - Relationship, they all still poly fam
Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578928
Comments: 11
Kudos: 120





	we fit together like a jelly donut and a decorated officer of the amestrian military

**Author's Note:**

> find ang3lba3 on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)

“Hey, stop at that shop,” Ed tells the driver as they pull up to the ice cream parlor a block away from Roy’s house. He’ll get out, grab a cone, break into Roy’s house and have a fucking _awesome_ evening bossing Roy around. It’s gonna be great. He’s got enough twizzlers in his bag to make a full body harness, and enough of an appetite to eat Roy out of it. It’s gonna be _great._

Except. The car doesn’t stop. 

“Hey!” Ed says, louder. “Stop at that SHOP!”

The car does _not_ stop. The cab driver winced his shoulders upwards to try and cover his ears, so he definitely heard Ed. Which means… 

Holy shit. Is he being kidnapped? Does this man not know _who he is?_

Ed’s so fucking stunned he just sits there like a lump, an outraged, offended lump. He’s the Fullmetal Goddamn Alchemist. _He_ kidnaps people. Well, like, not often--or ever— but you can’t _kidnap Edward Elric._ He should, he should, there’s something he should do with the seatbelt and strangling this fucker, but he can’t make the arrays. He’s too _angry._ It’s an entirely new experience. Never in his life has he been insulted like this—

And then they pull up in front of Roy’s house. The front yard of which has every single one of Roy’s guards — yes, hi, Reginald, Milly and Brent. Oh, there’s Lillette, looking smug. Nice to see all of you. Staring directly at the car that Ed’s pulling up in. Advancing on the car that has stopped in front of the house. Opening the car door and gesturing for him to come out. 

“This is an OUTRAGE,” Ed shouts. He then holds out his hands in front of himself, palms far away from each other. “Okay, cuff me boys.”

They all blink at him. They’re not _used_ to his charm, per se, but they’re also not _unused_ to it. There shouldn’t be this much dumbfounded blinking at what’s the logical next step in this equation.

“Chop chop, I’ve got places to be. The driver is on Roy’s payroll, I assume? Yeah, take me to that fucker, he won fair and square except _not_ because no fucking cab driver is going to recognize a casual assassin. He’s profiting off my celebrity, YET AGAIN.”

“I’m--” Reggie starts to say, and Lillette interrupts with a step forward that commands everyone’s attention, even Ed’s. She must be getting pointers from Hawkeye. 

“Dr. Elric, sir, we’ve been informed to allow you entry into the house after saying, ahem,” she shifts, uncomfortable in a way Hawkeye _isn’t_ (get ON that Riza) and says, stiffly, “Ha. Ha. You lost.” 

Ed gapes at her. “Absolutely not. Shackle me immediately.”

“We’re really not—”

“God, I have to do EVERYTHING around here!” Ed sighs explosively, claps his palms and presses them to the pavement, two cement arches forming over his wrists and ankles and connected by chains that limits his movement, blue light dancing dramatically from them. Hm. Maybe he should have taken the extra second to move some molecules around and make them metal, cause the cement chafes like _fuck._

“Dr. Elric, please,” Milly says, looking pained. “That’s illegal.”

“Oh? Better take me to someone who can do something about it. Like that _smug motherfucker—_ ”

“Mr Mustang’s neighbors have small children that are taken out in strollers, and elderly who use walkers. Please replace the pavement,” Lillette says, more sternly.

Ed grits his teeth, replaces the sidewalk and smooths out some small cracks and holes while he’s at it, and then grabs his bag of gear. “FINE.”

He’s eating that harness, and if Roy has any ice cream, he’s eating _that_ too.

***

“You’ve CAUGHT me,” Ed moans dramatically, throwing himself onto the leather couch face first, “you fuckin’ CHEAT. Real political of you, to CHEAT at a game with RULES.” 

Ed wraps his wrists in the twizzler rope, and immediately starts gnawing on it. Mm. Red. “Aren’t you gonna take your _prize?”_

Roy doesn’t look up from where he’s pretending to read a paper, pleased smile curling against his will. “What rules did I break, per se?”

“All of ‘em. Claim your ILL GOTTEN GAINS, you brigand.”

“Hmmm. It’s 3:35, Edward. I have work for another,” and he glances at his pocket watch thoughtfully, “three or so hours. You should have let my team situate you in my home. At least there you have your books to keep you entertained.” 

“If I could fuck books, why would I need you,” Ed says reasonably. “The papercuts aren’t worth it.”

Roy pockets his watch and continues to Not Look at Ed. Fucker. His hair’s all nice and shiny and _everything._ He brushed _all_ of his teeth this morning _and_ flossed. Even the ones you can’t usually see. “Speaking from experience?” 

“Oh you _know it_ , baby. Wanna see my battle scars?” Ed asks, getting fed up with this Not Looking shit. Like, he’s fed up usually with Roy looking at him, but Roy’s just Not Looking at him so that he Doesn’t Lose It, and his entire life’s purpose is to make Roy Lose It on him in this office. He’s ten seconds from stripping just to get a reaction.

“Oh, I would love to,” Roy purrs from his desk, flipping the form to the other side and dipping his pen in his inkwell. “This evening. After work, and dinner, and maybe a bath.” 

“It’s fucking Saturday,” Ed wails, and flops on his back, so he doesn’t have to keep seeing Roy Not Seeing Him. “When did you grow a work ethic? Where did you have _room_ for it with all the ego? Is this my fault? Did I knock you down so many pegs that you had room to grow a— GASP — desire to follow office sexual harassment regulations?!”

“I have always been a pillar of respectability,” Roy says, voice low and gravelly the way that makes Ed’s insides start dancing. “I can’t help how being around a gremlin like you has tarnished my reputation. I’ve resigned myself, out of fondness and a sense of responsibility, really. You should apologize to me.” 

“You’ve always talked about your _pillar_ a lot at work, that’s for sure,” Ed mutters, then raises his voice. “Victim blaming? That’s where we are now? I was a young, untainted, virginal, _pure_ man before you--”

A rubber band ball sails through the air and into the side of Ed’s head. Roy’s _still not looking_ even as he makes a face. And fuck. Fuck. Ed LOOKED again and that’s how he KNOWS THAT. “No, do not go there, unacceptable topic of conversation Edward Elric.” 

“Oh, right,” Ed says. He’d kinda forgotten for a second that they met when he was like, literally a young, untainted, virginal, pure child. “That’s nasty.”

A laugh bursts out of Roy and he tries to cough and cover it. 

“It’s okay Roy,” Ed says reassuringly. “Winry tainted the hell out of me before you got there. I have sex proof. I mean, children.”

“ _Edward”,_ Roy presses, strained, and he’s pinching his nose now in an effort to keep his gaze away, the absolute _bastard._ “Please. I do not need to hear about you --” he cuts himself off and shakes his shoulders, slipping from underneath the thumb of Ed’s harassment. Damn it. 

Fucking. Feelings. It’s always _feelings._ He can’t— like, sure, he likes their complicated past, he thinks it’s extremely sexy of them to be able to overcome so much and be happy, but it would be even _sexier_ if they could _actually just overcome it._ For one full hour. 

“What you working on,” Ed offers, a white flag, and takes a big bite of twizzler handcuff to keep his mouth busy.

“Notes from the sexual harassment seminar,” Roy answers, deadpann. 

“What do they say about—” Ed cuts himself off, inserts more twizzler. If he’s not good he’s going to push Roy past Sexy Rage and into Unsexy Rage. Unsexy Rage has a lot more crying, and Roy pretending he doesn’t wanna cry. He hates that. Winry hasn’t worked her ‘I will simply pinch you in sensitive areas until you start using your tear ducts’ magic on him yet.

“-- bratty loud mouthed pretty alchemists harassing their superiors? Nothing, oddly enough. It’s obviously going to be my first note.” Roy cuts in. 

“I’m tryin’ to be _good,”_ Ed protests. “Stop giving me openings or I’ll put something in them!”

Hm. That’s. An unfortunate series of word choices.

There’s a moment where the tension. Shifts. Roy deliberately sets down his pen, clasps his hands together in _that way_ and finally, finally looks at Ed. Ed feels his bones turn to jelly. But not like food jelly, more like the jelly that field medics rub on someone’s chest right before electrocuting them. Or the kind of jelly that you use for lube when you’re out of the real lube and you’re digging around in the medicine cabinet wondering whether olive oil will work, but the kitchen is really far, and the petroleum jelly is _right here._ And then Roy freaks out like a baby and makes them stop to get real lube anyways _._

“You’re,” Roy says, each syllable distinct and annunciated, “trying. To be. Good.” He lets the disbelief drip, heavy molasses. His mouth is pressed against his hands, hiding the way it’s tilted, but Ed knows. He fuckin’ knows. 

And because Ed isn’t trying _that hard,_ he arches his back, stretches his bound hands above his head, lets his tank top ruck up his abdomen a bit with the stretch. “What, ain’t I good?”

Roy blinks. And blinks again, and he’s wearing his uniform despite him being the only person in the office, in the _building,_ the entire command abandoned for-- wait. Is it a holiday? Is it -- did Roy--

This isn’t even hitting Ed’s buttons. This is going at every fantasy and stray thought he’s ever had like it’s a game of Whack-A-Mole.

“Edward,” he says, (why isn’t he saying Fullmetal, fucking bitch,) “you are a lot of things. You’re beautiful, intelligent, _delectable --_ but good? You, darling, are _not that._ ”

And ya know what, like, fuck it. Time to throw down the gauntlet. Make it _real fucking clear_ what he wants out of this. His breathing goes shallow, and he can hear it, how it clips his words short and breathy and _wanting._ It’s gross. Roy’s into gross stuff, though. “Maybe I just need a good teacher, Colonel.”

The sharp intake of breath sounds like a victory, and Ed arches a little more in self satisfaction, ready for the reprimand. He feels like the embodiment of a smug cat. He feels like he just knocked over an entire glass of milk and then decided he didn’t want any of it. He feels _good._

“Hm,” Roy hums, and then unthreads his fingers and goes back to work. 

Ed’s actually going to scream. He is. Just as soon as he gets over how fucking horrible that felt, to show his soft underbelly— _literally, he is literally baring his soft underbelly right now —_ and get. Ignored.

Okay so he’s not going to scream. But he is going to start crying, and he’s not doing that in this office.

“Welp, bye,” Ed chokes out, stumbling to his feet and towards the door.

It’s such a fucking relief to feel Roy’s hands on his arms even if he can’t feel their warmth beneath the ignition gloves (holy hell, he wasn’t wearing those to write in, _holy hell did he put them on just to_ ) and he only resists for a moment before he’s sagging into Roy’s arms. 

It’s--weird. They don’t, Roy usually undresses as soon as he gets home. At least takes off his jacket. Ed can feel the pointy bits of the medals and decorations, the bump of the braid, the way the thick wool scratches where it touches his bare skin. And even through his tank top really, it’s an old tank top. There’s at least two holes in it from where it wore thin in the wash. Ed sticks his fingers in one of them near the hem, and focuses on the way it feels frayed around the edges, ready to rip. He wonders if he can get his whole hand in there.

“Edward, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken that so far without asking you,” he mumbles in a low rush, mouth against the top of his head. “Forgive me?” 

Ah. Ha. Right. Yep. Roy’s still there. Holding him. He has to say something. He’s. Oh no. Oh no his nose is burning. Oh _no._ “Mmm,” he tries, hoping that if he freezes up hard enough, stays quiet enough, his tears can’t find him.

This is just — so fucking _dumb._ He’s dumb. Holy shit. He, immediate apology, it wasn’t that big a deal, it _wasn’t,_ he’s just spiralling and Roy’s _holding him_ and he still feels. Shocky. Weird. Rejected. A big hole in his chest. It wasn’t even _important._

Roy doesn’t push. He doesn’t taunt, or prod, or even move, each breath deliberate and slow as he waits for Ed to pull himself back together. He’s patient, body a hard line, anchoring him. 

“Sorry,” he finally grits out. “Sorry. Just. I dunno.”

“I missed you,” Roy admits warmly, completely dropping the tease. 

“It was fucking cheating to use the cab driver,” Ed says, and a tear or two escapes, but that’s okay, because it’s _clearly_ nothing to do with him. “I’m supposed to be poking holes in your security. A real robber or assassin or whatever—”

He can hear Roy’s smile, and Roy ignores the tears, bless him. “Winning is about the end result, not the process that delivers it.” 

“I’ll deliver a process to _you_ ,” Ed says.

“I’d like that,” Roy says, finally moving, hands sliding firm and rough down Ed’s bare arms, leaving red in their wake from the friction. 

“I know it’s your turn to pick,” Ed blurts out. He can’t quite finish it. _Pick what I want!_ his brain screams, but yeah, that’s. That’s not coming out of his mouth. 

“Let’s try this again, Fullmetal,” Roy’s voice is so deep, now, does he do that on purpose? Can he _create_ that tone? 

“Hrngh,” Fullmetal says intelligently, displaying the fantastically unbelievable intellect that awarded him his spot as a State Alchemist and Major of the Amestrian Military and highest ever scorer on the written exam and ballsiest practitioner in the practical.

“I’m working. You’re not even in _uniform._ That’s no way to seek an audience with your superior.” 

Ed laughs at that, a short, harsh bark, still a bit wet with the tears that have--oh would you look at that, just _evaporated._ He spins out of Roy’s arms, because this is best done at a distance and then very, _very_ close up. “An audience? Amestris a monarchy now? Or are you just a one man show? I’m waiting for you to be _entertaining_ , if so.”

Roy licks his lips and watches him, expression bland. “You uniform is in your locker, where I imagine it’s been since you were reissued one last year.” For awards and other bullshit, so the brass can trot him around-- still on a leash, even if we _let_ him leave, nothing to fear!

Ed takes an obnoxiously large chomp of his twizzler bonds, finally breaking them in half, hands free. He talks with a full mouth. “I brought my own snacks and e’vr’thing, but this just isn’t worth the price of admission. A dressing down over my dressing? Tha’s the best you got?”

Roy’s eyes narrow.

“Safewords. Now.” 

Ed promptly forgets every word he’s ever learned and says, “Fuck yeah!” Roy laughs for a _moment_ before wiping the grin from his mouth with his his palm and settling back in.

Ed recalibrates. “Rain. I say it if I need to pause and talk things through, or if I need to stop entirely, or if I need to be a bitch about feelings, what’s yours, c’mon c’mon _c’mon._ ”

Something in Roy breaks and he has Ed by the chin gently, tipping his chin up to shove his tongue into his mouth and kiss him deep and wet. It lasts just long enough to travel through Ed’s whole body and straight into his dick before he pulls away. 

“Thatsnotaword,” Ed groans. _“Roy—_ ”

“Sandstone,” Roy says roughly. “Hell, Edward, my safeword is sandstone, if I can even --” he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. Hm. Rejection pain _gone._ Ed’s got this man salivating for him. 

“This is--wait no, you don’t wanna hear that, just.” Ed tries to write over the part about where they met when he was young and that’s really weird for Roy because Ed like gay imprinted on him, except he didn’t, but Roy feels understandably weird about the implication _he did,_ “I want this, _I want this,_ c’mon, _let’s do it.”_

Roy’s pulling in a shuddering breath and he nods, wants it as bad as Ed, apparently. He takes a step back and smooths out his uniform with his hands, settling his shoulders back and doing he best to be taller than Ed with what little height advantage he’s got to work with.

“Fullmetal. You have five minutes.” He turns back towards his desk without another word.

Ed, who knows he can’t possibly reach the lockers in that amount of time, and furthermore knows that this is _not_ how the game is played, and further furthermore is losing his mind so much he’s thinking words like _furthermore—_

Slaps his hands together and then slaps them on his clothes, forming the shittiest replica of an Amestrian uniform he can out of the well worn fabric. His boxers get repurposed to form the regalia.

He has enough material for the pants alone if he redistributes the fibers, but he’ll need more, this has to be _perfect_ , and so he drops to his knees and takes some from the carpet too. It takes a good third of the carpeting to complete the whole thing, and it _itches_ but he imagines that’s just what uniforms feel like, poor bastards. 

It’s so close to good. It’s so very very far from good. It’s a stripper’s idea of what a Major’s uniform is. He takes a paperweight from the coffee table and forms a counterfeit watch. The beast on the front looks more like a...very abused horse, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought is to make Roy insult him, so this thought counts _perfectly._

Shit! He almost forgot, and he pulls the tie from his ponytail with shaking fingers, rapidly plaiting it into a long braid that falls most of the way down his back. It’s much longer than he had it, when he was younger. It’s also messier near the front, bangs grown out to hit near his chin. It’s not even close to regulation, even with Amestris’ lax stance on long hair. It’s a combat hazard. He hopes Roy notices. He hopes Roy notices a _lot._

“Hm,” Roy says, right on cue, like he’d been watching. “Fullmetal, is that you? It’s been a while.” It sounds so much like his usual start to a conversation that it throws Ed into nostalgia for a moment. 

“Going blind in your old age?” Ed jabs, which, whoops, that’s a bit more personal than he’d meant, but in for a cen in for a fistfight? 

That gets a grimace, and Roy stands from his desk slowly. 

“You didn’t salute me, Major,” he warns him, ignoring Ed’s obvious jab for the trap it was. 

“Oh, right,” Ed says, and then cups his balls and wiggles his pelvis at Roy. “There ya go.”

Roy--

Mustang fucking--

He _snaps,_ literally, fingers in front of him, flame licking at the back of Ed’s hand in a warm kiss, and it takes every piece of self control in Ed’s body to freeze instead of attack. He darts his other hand up, as far away from his ball-holdin-hand as he can get it, and then forces himself to very carefully remove it. _Don’t clap don’t clap don’t clap, we like him._

Mustang smirks. 

He approaches slowly, composed, coiled tight with something like rage. He stops a few steps away, hands casually at his back. 

Ed lets the hand at his side slowly pull in, to touch his forehead, and straightens his spine a bit, slaps his other hand down at his side. The flames are gone. He’s trying really hard not to think about the flames. His carpet pants are _not at all flame retardant._

“That’s better,” Mustang purrs, raking his eyes up and down lasciviously. “Better than you’ve ever given me, anyways,” and the innuendo drips as he lifts his hands to Ed’s shoulders to readjust them. They slide down his sides next, angling his body closer to Roy’s, and settle dangerously close to the hem of his pants. 

“And what is it...you want...me to...give you?” Ed manages, eyes straight ahead. The curtains are closed. They’ve been closed this entire time. He can’t believe he ever thought this moron was gonna say _no._

“I wonder,” Roy’s hands move to Ed’s hips and squeeze at the hipbones, thumbs pressed into the little divots that make Ed squirm. He tries not to make a noise, it’s too soon for that. He’s fairly sure he’s making a noise only dogs can hear, trying to hold it in. “What you can give me, Major?”

“It’s not for me to speculate what a Colonel would want from me,” Ed says. “That’s what orders are for. Sir.”

Mustang knows what he’s up to. His eyes go sharp and he lets go, and Ed thinks he’s giving him space before he’s suddenly got him by the balls, eyelids drooping lazily. 

“Your report.” 

“I don’t have a pen,” Ed says, and he’s— he’s not going to make him write a report. He is _not_ going to make him write a report. Ed will _revolt._ And then he’ll, he’ll, _something._

The idea hadn’t crossed Roy’s mind if the way his grin goes wicked is anything to go by. His teeth are. So sharp. “I _have_ been lax in allowing you a verbal report,” Mustang agrees, and he strokes Ed through his pants roughly, watching him, waiting for Ed to break. 

“I’ll just go over to your desk and write one then,” Ed says, because his shoulders are twitching like crazy and he’s twenty seconds tops from begging to suck some superior officer dick. He pulls away and... _walks over…_ to Mustang's desk… and. Wait. Wasn’t he gonna revolt if he had to write a report? Why is he picking up a pen? “Mind if I sit?” 

“Yes,” Mustang says, and he leans over Ed’s back to grab a loose sheet of paper-- the one he was pretending to read, that rat _bastard_ \-- and lay it in front of him. Ed’s facing the chair, on the other end of the desk, Mustang’s body hot where it’s pressed along his back, and his brain short circuits imaging-- Mustang watching him while he writes his report, eyes glazed and arm visible where it’s working to jack himself off under the desk, like Ed doesn’t know, like he can’t _hear_ him, --

Big hands are at his hips again but this time one slides up the inside of his shirt, fingers spread for as much contact as possible. The friction of the ignition cloth is just too rough on his soft belly and Ed jerks away only to be shoved back where he was by Mustang’s thighs where they’re bracketing his from behind. 

“Something the matter?” Mustang asks blithely. 

“I’m,” Ed says. “I’m having trouble recalling the--details. Of the mission.”

“It involved thousands of dollars of property damage, a donkey, and two prostitutes,” Mustang says easily. “Also, a pinata. I can see where you’d forget some details, there’s quite a few to keep track of.”

“So your usual Friday night,” Ed adds, and Mustang smacks him hard across the cheek with a backhand. He wasn’t braced for it, and his teeth nearly catch his tongue, and his knees definitely give out. He catches himself on the desk, an uncomfortable crunching noise where his automail hand slams into the wood. Wood crunching, not metal. Thankfully. Or maybe not. His cheek _burns_ , and underneath the burn it _aches,_ and he’s so acutely aware of the skin on his own face that he can feel Mustang’s breath caressing his eyelashes.It’s deeply unsexy. His eyes are drying out. Or is it _very sexy?_

There’s no time to contemplate sexy’s greatest mysteries, or consider that maybe his brain is melting out of his ears right this very second. Mustang is taking the opportunity given to him (Ed bent over the desk, fuck, how many times has Ed thought about this) to curl his fingers underneath the waistband of Ed’s counterfiet slacks and _yank_. 

There’s cold air on his ass, and he’s trembling, gears working in his arm to bear his weight so he doesn’t crumble, and Mustang drops behind him and then there’s _hotwet_ and Ed _howls_. 

“That’s UNSANITARY,” he cries, and shoves back into it. “I’ve been on a HOT TRAIN all DAY.”

“You’ve never given fellatio in a desert, I see,” Mustang intones from behind, licking across his ballsack and sucking before Ed can get anything else out. 

Ed screeches to a halt, not literally, but internally, because— he knows. Most of the people Roy served with. And that’s an _interesting_ tidbit, isn’t it, and wow, he’s really, rearranging a lot of his ideas about certain relationships that Roy had, and _holy shit not the time—_

“That’s un-sand-itary,” Ed says, because otherwise he’s going to say something really awful, and this is the least awful he can think of. Roy’s still sucking at his balls and Ed shifts back into it, wanting more and unable to _do_ anything about it. 

_“Report,_ Fullmetal,” Mustang says, and there’s a hint of teeth. Not a bite. Just a--reminder. 

Ed snatches at a pen with his left hand, because he can write with his right hand now but it’s not fucking worth the effort to try and fail at bracing himself with his flesh arm. He doesn’t, he can count on one hand how many times he’s stood for sex, and he’s never been so. Off balance. It’s never been a feature that he’s _incredibly_ off balance.

As if sensing Ed’s train of thought derail Mustang bites him with intent, on his thigh where it meets the curve of his ass, where he’ll feel it regardless if he’s sitting or standing. Ed’s spine does the electrocution shimmy, and his hand starts writing words. Not. Good words. Not _legible_ words. It’s pretty much just him failing to write ‘fuck’ over and over. It’s mostly on the paper.

Roy’s mouth trails back up to Ed’s ass and he dips his tongue in, lapping at the ring of muscle and holding on to Ed’s leg for balance, so now they’re _both_ relying on Ed to keep the party upright, like Ed’s ever been an _upright_ person in his _life._ Like _that’s_ a good idea. Except. It is good. It’s _really_ good, and Ed makes a sound and pushes back against Roy’s tongue where it’s pointed, fucking into him with intent. 

Just when the warmth is starting to build into heat Mustang pulls back with a wet intake of air. 

“Show me what you have so far,” he orders. He strokes the back of Ed’s thigh. 

Ed stares at the sheet of paper, and then at the desk. One had gotten far more scribbles on it than the other, and it wasn’t the right one. His hand spasms at the idea of showing it to--of-- _this is not a pinata--_ and the pen snaps.

Ink. Everywhere.

“Oh fuckshitdamn,” he swears.

A disappointed sigh shivers over Ed’s spine from Mustang’s lips and he stands, palms sliding up Ed’s ass, cupping at them and squeezing. 

“Do you want this to hurt, or go fast?” Mustang asks. He adds, as if it’s the part he fucking needs to clarify, “Your punishment.” 

Ed blinks. “Uh. Wait. Good fast or hurt slow?” 

“You passed the alchemist’s exam,” Mustang replies cuttingly, saturated with disbelief. 

“So did _you,”_ Ed says, and he’s just, holy shit he doesn’t know what he’s choosing between and even if he did that’s not-- _choice?_ NOW? What fucking game are they playing?

Ed’s face meets the desk again, hard, Mustang’s grip on the base of his neck. His breath is hot in his ear but it’s bitingly gentle in comparison to his grip, to the line of pain where the edge of the desk is digging into his thighs. He doesn’t think his face is going to bruise. Roy isn’t that careless, and Ed doesn’t bruise that easily. Ed cannot stop thinking about his face bruising.

“Safewords, love,” Roy asks him, and it _is_ Roy, he’s noticed how confused Ed is and is-- checking in, or something. Fuck. Fuck, Roy’s in control, he’s _been_ in control this whole time Ed’s been melting down and losing his goddamn mind.” 

“Rain,” Ed manages. His voice sounds small. He doesn’t like it. “I’m okay. Maybe. I think.”

“You told me you wanted the pain,” Roy reminds him, casting back to pillow talk from months ago. “But I don’t want to hurt you.” His thumb is gently caressing his neck, the fine hairs catching in the weave of his glove. 

“No! It’s. I like it. I’m. It was trying to choose. I can’t, I can’t think. I don’t know what I’m s’posed to choose between and it’s like, like when I’m at the Xingese restaurant and I start hyperventilating because there’s too many combos and you just order for me. Kay.” Ed takes a deep breath. Talking. About FEELINGS. Disgusting.

Roy huffs an amused breath across the back of Ed’s neck. 

“I always say no if I don’t like the combo you pick,” Ed reminds him. It seems relevant.

“Alright, I think I understand. I’m going to let you go but I want you to stay where you are. Understood?” There’s ink all over his fake uniform. The fake laundromat is gonna be so pissed. 

“Yuh-huh,” Ed says, and his voice is still that. High soft weak thing. Gross, gross, _gross._ Don’t let Roy see he _wants it,_ but Roy wants him to want it, and this is— 

Mustang does just that, grip going slack and then letting go from the back of Ed’s neck in increments to get him used to the sensation before he drops back down to where he was. There’s the sound of cotton brushing together, and then hot breath on Ed’s thighs, and Roy murmurs, as if absently checking off a box, “Hm, you’re still hard.” 

Then he shoves two gloved fingers inside of Ed without any warning. Ed stays face down on the desk just, just out of _shock,_ and he hears more than feels the way his automail hand just punched holes in it, feels more than hears his own groan. The vibrations ricochet through his teeth, through his skull, and Roy’s fingers. Are. Inside him. And also. Inside his ignition gloves. Which are also inside him. 

He can’t process this. 

When they’d first started dating, or, or, whatever they are. He’d started stealing pairs of Roy’s gloves. Replacing them with perfect replicas, of course, and if he could make perfect replicas what’s the point of stealing them? But the point is. The point is. He’s not. He’s sort of hinted. He’s _hinted a lot._ But the gloves come off. Nearly always. And always always before this. Unless Roy’s not wearing the gloves. _But Roy’s wearing these gloves._

Roy’s also been still the entire time Ed’s been spiralling, lips gentle where they’re pressed against his ass, gently kissing. 

“Good combo,” Ed gasps out. _“Good combo, good combo._ ”

Mustang curves the fingers inside of him and then strokes along Ed’s neglected cock with his other hand. This one’s naked, palm thick with slick, and the diametric sensations of _rough pain sharp full_ and _slick firm nice good_ has him punching his fist against the desk and howling in some sort of primal cry. He can’t form words. It’s a really good thing he can’t form words. He can’t _think_ of words. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

This is a punishment? 

Each curl and pull unravels more of Ed’s self control, until he’s dragging in ragged breaths that turn to ragged sobs, forehead rolling against the desk. He’s gritting his teeth so hard he can feel them creak, hands scrabbling along anything they can find, and Mustang twists his wrist in that way and Ed’s leg kicks out, out of his control, his whole body is _out of his control._

“Please,” Ed begs, voice foreign in his own ears, “Please, Mustang, no, please, no, no, it’s too much, _I can’t--_ ”

“What?” Roy’s voice is sharp but he doesn’t stop or move or pull out, he’s just. _Here._ Attentive. 

Ed’s writhing in frustration, pushing into the hand in his ass and up into the hand against his dick, face still pressed against the desk, and he’s. Going to lose his fucking mind. “Who told you to stop holy shit, you asshole, you fucking bitch—”

Taunting him still works, thank god, because Roy picks up the pace and thrusts his fingers in deeper, fist pumping along Ed’s cock so fast it’s near a blur. 

“No, no, no, ah, ah, fuck, fuck, _no,”_ Ed gasps. He’s not even sure what he’s saying no to. No, don’t look him? No, don’t see how much he likes this? No, don’t ever fucking mention this ever, even while it’s happening, or he will _implode_ with shame?

“No? You don’t wanna come, Fullmetal?” Mustang asks him, and the fucker’s voice doesn’t even waver. 

“No,” Ed echoes back. No he doesn’t wanna come, he wants to _live like this,_ this is the only thing he ever wants to feel until he _dies,_ and if Roy’s not going to literally kill him he can shut the fuck up and edge him until his heart gives out. It’s like he can read his goddamn _mind_ because immediately Mustang slows down his pace, fingers loosening their grip on Ed’s cock and fingers straightening out from where they’ve been shoving relentlessly at his prostate. 

_“No!”_ Ed wails, because he’s a contrary and ungrateful brat, and Roy should _do something_ about it. Roy _is_ doing something about it.

Ed thrusts frantically against Roy’s palm, chasing his orgasm, trying to take it, and Roy immediately flattens it out and removes all but the barest brush of skin and Ed _yells._ “Why are you DOING this?!”

Mustang laughs humorlessly behind him, pulling his hands away. There a soft sound-- he’s taking off his glove, probably-- and a groan as he stands, bracing himself on Ed’s lower back like he’s furniture. There is a _perfectly good_ desk edge _right there,_ barely missing chunks, and the _indignity—_

Okay, maybe it’s more the indignity of not being fingered anymore. Ed drags his pants up, feeling exposed. Really. Exposed. It’s not overwhelming, like earlier, but it’s still— a lot. 

Mustang stretches and sighs, walking lackadaisical over to his desk chair and dropping down. His legs spread-- has he always sat like that? Ed thinks both that yes he has to have and no there’s no fucking way-- and his hands go to his belt. 

“No fucking way,” Ed says out loud. Mustang smiles lazily. Ed walks over, kneels in front of him. Mustang undoes his belt. Ed licks his lips, mouth watering. “Not on your fucking life. Fuck. I hate you. I hate you _so fucking much—_ ”

It all gets a bit—

***

He’s sitting on Roy’s lap, braced in the most dangerous and adventurous sex adventure yet, called _let’s try and fuck in a goddamn wheeled chair_. 

He’s 500 words into his report. Some of them even make sense. 

“Wrong there,” Roy murmurs, and gently thrusts. It has to be gentle. Or they’ll fall off. Again.

Ed crosses out _their_ and writes _they’re._

“Wrong _there,_ ” Roy insists.

Ed crosses out _they’re_ and writes _there_.

Roy’s hand closes over Ed’s erection in reward. Ed whines. 

“Fullmetal,” Mustang breathes, tongue tracing over the shell of his ear, hips working shallowly underneath him. “You’re behaving splendidly. Perhaps all I needed to reign you in this entire time was a,” he grips Ed tightly at the base, meant to hurt and it does it _does_ and Ed squirms and gasps, Roy’s voice low, “firm hand?”

Ed writes, _and then I escorted the donkey back to the firm._

“Farm,” Roy corrects.

Ed crosses out _firm_ and writes _farm._

“Address it to me,” Mustang adds, rolling his hips. 

Ed obediently flips the sheet over, writes on the top, _to the office of Fuhrer Roy Mustang._ Or at least he means to, but by ‘Fuhr’ Roy starts fucking him so hard he drops his pen.

“Oh my, you,” Roy gasps, both hands gripping at Ed’s thighs to keep him from getting thrown off of his lap, Ed’s own hands gripping the edge of the desk to keep them from wheeling away. 

“You _heathen,_ you sneaky little _mink,_ I--fuck--” his hips are erratic now, slamming up into him, Roy’s breath harsh from effort. 

_“Fuck me,_ ” Ed demands, “I fucking hate you, oh my god, just--fucking—fetishy ambitious--”

“I’m fetishy?” Roy laughs, and then bites the back of his neck.

“I du--nno, are you,” Ed says, voice cut up as he tries to force the sentence out. “Fuhrer?” 

“Come, Fullmetal. That’s a _fucking_ order.” He says _fucking_ so soft that it’s nearly a whisper, and oh, fuck, _kink unlocked_ , Roy needs to say lots more dirty words in that dirty mouth, _yes please._

Because Ed’s a disobedient little shit, he writhes around hysterically for a moment. Because he’s also a fetishy little shit, he comes. He comes his _fucking brains out._ He’s pretty sure he yells, “No!” 

Like that’ll stop Roy from noticing that he enjoyed that. That he’s got a new cheat code. He’s gonna, he’ll rip the memory out of his fucking mind, just as soon as he can remember how to breathe, because nothing can feel this good and _Mustang_ of all people can’t _know_ what feels this good--Ed’s been fucked by an Emperor in his throne room, by someone with literally inhuman endurance while running for his life, and it didn’t come _close_ to this adrenaline rush, this is _absurd—it’s illogical—_

They end up falling to the floor, because of course they do, Roy making heavy little snarling noises as he tries to keep himself from sounding all moany or whatever as he fucks into Ed frantically where he’s got his face pressed into the carpet now. Roy ruts into him a few moments more before he comes, annoyingly silent, firm pumps of his hips pulling aftershocks out of him. 

“I’m going to lose more often,” Ed says, as soon as he can say anything.

“That’s cheating,” Roy slurs from on top of him. 

“The ends _justify the means,”_ Ed says back. He’s— he should be slurring. He was slurring a lot earlier. He feels like he just dipped his entire nervous system in caffeinated cocaine. He needs to. Stand up. Walk around. Move. Fuck. Fuck. How could that be so _good?_

“Mmm,” Roy adds helpfully. His eyes are closed. 

Is he tired out? Is he _just_ tired? He had done some of the heavy lifting, earlier, that’s for sure. And he seems exhausted. Why didn’t he make any noise when he came? Why isn’t he talking now? Did he not like it? How does Ed make sure he liked it? His legs are tacky. His entire body is tacky. _Is Roy falling a-fucking-sleep right now?_

Roy is absolutely falling asleep. 

“Roy,” Ed says sharply. “Roy, wake up. _Roy._ ”

“Yes, dear,” he mumbles against the carpet. He doesn’t even open his eyes. 

Ed freezes up. How does he say anything without saying anything? He’s— he can’t take it. If Roy even jokes. Right now. He’s losing his mind. Roy’s falling asleep. He should let him sleep. It’s fine. He’s overthinking it. Oh my god he’s a fucking freak and Roy’s falling asleep to avoid ever speaking to him again _oh my god._

Roy huffs and groans and shoves himself up dramatically, eyes blinking sleepily at Ed. He manages to get into a sitting position, kicking off his slacks and sitting bare-assed like Ed. He opens his arms, blinking blurrily. 

Ed stares at them. Is that like… a stop sign? What the fuck does that _mean?_ Why is he being so cryptic? Is it like when you wave your arms at bears to look bigger? Is Ed a bear? He thought _Roy_ was the bear if anyone’s the bear, even though they’re both obviously— 

“Up we go,” Roy says blurrily, hooking an arm underneath Ed’s knees and one behind his back to lift him into a bridal carry. Ed’s so startled he only smacks him a little, and with his human hand too. He’s so startled he thinks the words _human hand_ like Winry didn’t just snap her neck up in Rush Valley and stare in his direction with eyes full of murder.

They drop in a pile on the leather couch and Roy leans back, man-handling Ed on his chest so that they’re sort of. Cuddling. With their bare asses out in his office. His eyes are closed again. 

Ed locked the door, right? He locked the door. He’s like. Almost sure he locked the door.

“Edward,” Roy mumbles. 

“Yeaaah,” Ed says, twitching. Mostly because every muscle in his body is overextended, but also because he’s just. Twitching. Anxiously. 

“Talk to me.” Roy says. His hand is stroking along his back. When did that happen? 

“Counterpoint,” Ed says. “You talk and I tell you whether you’re right or wrong and if you don’t just guess my thoughts I never have to confirm them.”

For some reason Roy smiles and shifts, turning to smush Ed between his body and the back of the couch. He reaches down and digs around underneath it, coming back with a thin throw the same color as the carpet. Fucking _sneak,_ he _knew_ he took naps on this thing. Roy drapes it over them. 

“You’re like…” Roy muses, sleepily. “A grumpy cat. You’re so cute.”

“That is _not_ what I’m thinking, you are _bad_ at this,” Ed says severely, but he’s. Not angry. It feels kind of. Good. To hear that Roy still thinks he’s cute. Even if Roy almost never says he’s cute.

“You’re not thinking anything, _I’m_ thinking that you’re adorable, and incredible, and ineffable, and--”

“A SEXUAL DEVIANT WHO’S SCARRED YOU PERMANENTLY AND FOR LIFE,” Ed interrupts, and it comes out _way too loud,_ but _in for a cen in for a fistfight._ “AND THAT I’M REALLY WEIRD AND GROSS AND YOU’RE GROSSED OUT AND YOU DON’T WANNA TALK TO ME ANYMORE AND I CLEARLY HAVE SOME KIND OF UNRESOLVED TRAU—”

Roy kisses him to shut him up. It’s a bad kiss, no finesse, all lips and no tongue or anything. 

He leans back. Ed blinks up at him. “And that I have daddy issues,” he finishes. 

“Please never say ‘daddy’ when we’re naked together again,” Roy says. 

“You liked it fine when I said Fuhrer. And that’s just like, the presidential daddy.” Ed points out.

“Stop,” Roy begs, burying his face in Ed’s neck. 

“Chief Executive Father.”

“NO.” He blows a raspberry against the sweaty skin there to distract him. 

“I don’t want to call you daddy,” Ed says. _Like. Not a lot, anyways._

“That’s good, cause you’re never going to be allowed to.” Ah. His voice is firm. This is Serious. 

“Oh, are you gonna _stop me d-_ NOPE. Sorry. Shit. Hhhhh.” Ed starts giggling. “Sorry, sorry.”

Roy leans up and glares at him. “You’re not funny.” Ed laughs harder. 

“I’m fucking hilarious,” Ed crows. 

“Fucking something,” Roy mutters, kissing at Ed’s jaw. 

“Fucking _you,_ ” Ed mutters back. “Speaking of. How’s your deep emotional scarring?”

Roy shifts around so he can look at Ed comfortably. He considers him, and Ed considers right back. And then he wants to vomit because that’s too much eye contact, and he considers Roy’s collarbones. Mmm. Worth the consideration.

“I didn’t think I would enjoy the fantasy,” He admits. “I knew I’d enjoy _you_ , that’s inevitable. But the idea of being in a position of power and using that on you?” He makes a face and Ed’s stomach drops. “You know how I feel about that.” 

“Yeah. I mean. I guess you know how _I_ feel about that,” Ed says, and stares really really hard at those collarbones. He can still see Roy’s face in his peripheral vision. “It’s. It’s bad. And I think that’s why it’s, you know. I’m terrified--was terrified— but it’s. I dunno. Isn’t it easier to be scared of things when you fuck them?”

Roy laughs explosively, like he wasn’t expecting it, and he covers his mouth in surprise. “I’ve never once thought anywhere close to something like that,” Roy admits fondly. “I fear that’s something a genius comes up with.” 

“Sounds like _someone’s_ formative sexual experience wasn’t with a homunculi,” Ed says, and points his nose into the air. He hasn’t. Said that out loud. To many people. Al knows because Al _knows things,_ Winry knows because it was _relevant,_ and Roy. 

Doesn’t know that. So.

He knows now. 

He _lets it go._

“I enjoyed this,” he admits to Ed instead. “Because it was you, and because you were in control, and if you ever stopped wanting it I knew you’d tell me and that made it--- well, it made it wonderful.” 

Ed doesn’t say anything back, for a long moment. It’s. It’s incredibly obvious how he felt. Wasn’t it? He thought it was. Roy just said it was, more or less. “I feel bad that I enjoyed it. And that I wanted it. And that I got it. But not that bad. I guess. Just. Bad.”

Shit, that put a frown on Roy’s face. He’s fucking done it now. 

Ed keeps talking, desperate to get it off. Holy shit, if he gets the idea they _shouldn’t do it again._ “No! I want— I mean. It. Don’t you ever want shit?! Don’t you ever like shit but you hate liking it?” Roy rolls his eyes and Ed knows, yeah, ‘ _you’_ is on the tip of Roy’s tongue. 

“Shut up! No! It’s. It’s not like you like me. It’s not just, it’s not just an _inappropriate attraction_ that I developed one day a couple years ago. It’s just _me._ It’s just _me._ And I can’t. Not like it. And it’s _better when I have it._ And it’s not _normal._ You didn’t even want it--”

“I still have your pearls in my desk at home,” Roy says, point blank, no hesitation. 

“And I’ve stolen dozens of your gloves, what the fuck ever, that’s not my, that’s.” Ed pushes his face into his hands and screams a little bit.

“Edward,” Roy snaps, irritated maybe. He pulls at his wrists until he gives in, lets him see. 

“If I didn’t want it I wouldn’t do it. That’s always been the premise here, you absolute shit. Stop obsessing.” 

“BUT IT WENT REALLY WELL!” Ed half yells. “IT’S NOT ALLOWED TO HAPPEN LIKE THAT FOR ME.”

“Yes,” Roy adds calmly, “It is. And it does. Live with it.” 

“You make it sound so--stupid— like oh, Edward, got everything he wanted and it was all wonderful and just what he needed and fulfilling five different lifelong fantasies,” Ed says, dropping into a mocking gravel. “Poor Edward, had the time of his life and now he’s waiting for someone to beat him _and mean it,_ what a fucking moron, can’t he just _enjoy himself,_ who’s ever fucking heard of sub drop—”

Ed stops, abruptly. “Oh.”

Some complicated expressions fight for dominance on Roy’s face before he settles on resigned. 

“I think my brain chemicals are upset with me,” Ed says in a small voice.

“Hm. I didn’t realize,” Ed opens his mouth, “that _wasn’t_ sarcasm. I really was about to fight with you, _gods,”_ and Roy rubs at his face and sits up to give them both some space. 

Ed does not want space and he flops face first into Roy’s chest. He’s not gonna cry, but that’s a hydration technicality. “You fucked all my seratonin out of me. All my dopamine.”

Roy’s arms go around him easily and they settle back down, Roy’s hands in Ed’s hair, gently petting at him. 

“I suuuuuuck,” Ed whines. “I suck, I suck, _I suck.”_

“Shut up,” Roy mumbles, “I love you. Should I recite poetry? I must admit, I only know of this in it’s barest definition, so I’m woefully unprepared to help you.” 

“I know you love me it’s horrible,” Ed starts, but then stops, because if he says something like _I don’t deserve it,_ he’ll just have to jump out the window and run for Rush Valley entirely nude. There are thoughts he doesn’t say out loud. He has them. Sometimes. He’s just. Drained. It’s hard not to say them. 

“Oh, is that all?” There’s relief, and warmth, and they sound the same sometimes and Ed doesn’t have the energy to parse the difference right now. 

“That’s all you’re fucking getting,” Ed says, and then adds, “Can you. Hug me. Harder.”

“I would be delighted,” Roy admits, arms tightening, legs hooking around to capture both of Ed’s between his. He kisses at the side of his face. 

Hhhh. Pressure. Pressure good. Pressure _safe._ Ed’s being compressed into one very happy...compressed...Ed. Canned Ed. Canned Ham. 

“Do you have food at home or is it just like, that horrible canned meat,” Ed asks. He’s recovered enough to think about food. He’s gonna be _okay._

“Shhh,” Roy doesn’t answer. 

“That’s a no,” Ed says, and then. Oh. Oh. Yep. There are the tears. “I don’t have enough liquid in my body to cry.”

“ _Shhhh,_ ” Roy says. 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he whimpers, snottily. “I fucking hate canned ham, Roy.”

“I know,” Roy says helplessly. “But it’s so good when you’re starving at 11pm and also drunk on shitty scotch. You wouldn’t understand.” 

“I only get drunk on moonshine,” Ed says, and his sobs turn brutal. “We’re--we’re— _not meant for each other,_ I can’t even understand _your favorite food—”_

Roy’s kissing his eyes, the corners, the swell of his cheekbones, catching tears as they fall.

“You’re an idiot,” he says lovingly. “Can’t your brain stop working for a _minute_?” 

“Canned ham is so _groooosssssss!”_ Ed sobs. “It’s going to be the end of us! It’s, it’s, it’s.”

He starts hiccupping, and can’t continue. 

“It’s _canned ham,”_ he finally finishes, because he feels it really brings his point home. Really wraps up that thesis. Give him another doctorate, Dr Elric’s done it a-fucking-gain.

“Yes, dear,” Roy sighs. 

“I’m going to sleep now,” Ed announces.

***

There are peanut noodles. Ed blinks his eyes open, crust pulling at his lashes, and there they are, beautiful and brown and shining in oily delicious sauce. There’s tea too, legitimate tea, in the set they use for the brass. There’s even the incredibly tiny cream jug.

There’s a dull scratching and Ed looks up and sees Roy, dressed in his casual clothes, writing at his work desk. He glances up and smiles, explaining just as Ed panics, heart hammering, _I fucked up I fucked up--_

“You started kicking and asked me to move,” Roy explains, “And I wanted to acquire dinner, so don’t obsess too much.” 

“You can’t stop me,” Ed says, even though Roy’s just stopped him. He pulls himself to a sitting position, head spinning, and then grabs the noodles. They’re still _hot._ “I’ll obsess about anything. Watch me. I’ll cry over whatever you say.”

“You’ll cry over those noodles, probably,” Roy agrees, picking at his own chicken with his chopsticks and smiling brightly at him through his mouthful. 

Ed’s eyes prickle, and he’s horrified to realize Roy might be right. He brought him _noodles._ He got him _noodles,_ his _favorite kind,_ after Ed _kicked him and sobbed on him_ and _degraded his favorite food—_

“I was joking!” Roy says, slightly alarmed, hand over his mouth in an effort at manners for talking with his mouth full.

“You BOUGHT ME,” Ed starts, and takes a deep breath, trying to stem the sobs. His eyes hurt, his throat is sore, he’s so fucking dehydrated. This is how Winry must have felt when she was pregnant, holy shit. She did it _twice._ “Noooo _oooodles.”_

There’s a moment where Roy looks legitimately pained. “Do we. Do we need to. Talk? Or maybe, you can. See someone?” He glances down at his food and sets down his chopsticks. “I thought some food would help,” he admits, a little lost. 

“Maybe,” Ed starts, and then stops, because the food _will_ help, maybe they don’t need to resort to such desperate measures— “Winry knows more. You could. Call her?”

He does not want to talk about how his wife has held him through more than one of these episodes, after gleefully putting him there. He really doesn’t. This will _end._ He’s not clear on how or when, but it _does_ end. And it feels so good.

The thing is, Winry enjoys putting Ed back together just as much as taking him apart, but Roy has been demonstrably uncomfortable this entire time. He just didn’t realize how intense this would be. How much easier it would be for Roy to— _he said no._ He didn’t, not that he wanted it to stop, but that’s usually a good indication, is all. Of intensity. If he says no. And he got there _so fast._

Winry and him work on multiple levels, even though Ed doesn’t really... _work_ with women. Most of the time. And this is one of them, the level that they meet on. It just. He wasn’t ready. 

“Ed,” Roy says, and he sounds-- devastated. His hand is covering his mouth and he looks sick. “Did I--” 

“I’m okay,” Ed sniffles, “You did. _Really good._ A lot better than I thought it would be. Winry—we know each other. It took. Years. Before she could get me there. It takes time. It didn’t, I didn’t know you could get me here. I should have,” his sniffles get louder, and he feels so _guilty_ it’s going to eat him alive, and he wails, “I should have printed you a PAMPHLET.” 

Roy’s up and out of his chair, kneeling at Ed’s feet and hands up, clearly wanting to touch but afraid to. Like he’ll _bite._ Or cry harder. 

“Please,” Roy says, a record outside of sex probably, “What do you need? I can’t stand knowing I did this to you.” 

“I don’t _know,”_ Ed whimpers. “It’s—I know. I do know. I can’t think. You need. To call Winry. She will. High five you. It’s good. I’m glad. But _call my fucking wife.”_

Roy Mustang must love him, because he swallows, nods, and does just that. 

***

The phone call lasts maybe five minutes before Roy’s hanging up and scrambling back towards Ed, hands big and warm as he pulls him into his lap. They settle back to chest so that Ed can feel his breathing, and yeah, that’s nice, Roy’s chest is big and warm.

Roy reaches for the noodles and passes them to Ed. 

“Eat.” 

“Oh, I have food,” Ed says, fuzzily, delighted. He proceeds to stare at it and smell it and poke at it. 

“Ed. Eat.”

“Oh!” Ed says, utterly exhausted. “I eat the food.”

He stares at it some more. Roy heaves a big sigh, and lifts some to Ed’s mouth for him. One bite in and Ed’s practically drinking the noodles, he’s eating them so fast.

“Yeah,” Roy sighs. “You eat the food.”

He runs his palm along Ed’s spine in firm, even strokes as he eats, silent so that he doesn’t overwhelm him. Ed appreciates whatever Winry told him. It’s kinda the same as what Roy was already trying to do, but _less_ and also better, so Roy was on the right track at least. 

“That was awesome,” Ed says, when he’s done. His body is so sore. And so empty. And he’s shaking. And he thinks he might cry again at any moment. “Let’s do it. Every single day. Forever. Okay? Sleeping now, no time to talk about it, sleep now.”

Ed lays down, lips still shiny with noodle grease, and just-- drifts off.

***

Roy watches him. He pets his hair, and counts his breaths, and feels the not-tears stick in his throat again. 

“I don’t like this,” he admits to Ed’s sleeping form. “That scared me. I don’t like being scared, and not knowing how to solve it.”

He doesn’t understand why Ed didn’t tell him. Wasn’t more...clear. Or, well, Winry had sort of explained on the phone. And Ed had also sort of explained. Winry’s emphasis was on making sure not to let Ed see how disturbed he was until he was calm enough to talk it through rationally (or as rationally as Ed ever got), but that then Roy could yell at him all he wanted. Her emphasis was also on feeling free to call back and talk to her about any part of it, any time.

Roy did not think he wanted to call back and talk to her about any part of it. Ever.

Ed snuffles against his palm when he moves to stroke his cheek, white with tear salt. It’s. Cute. Roy frowns some more, and feels the worry settle into something deeper, more profound. 

There had been— some kind of important declaration happening, earlier, when he thought Ed was picking a fight. Something about how Ed needs this, or _is_ this. Something Ed was deeply scared and ashamed of. He doesn’t think that was all the chemical drop. Chemical drops can make someone unreasonably upset. They can’t introduce entirely new ideas. And Ed...has trouble talking about his feelings. His most deeply held feelings.

Roy’s even worse. If Roy is supposed to be the one supporting him in these… drops, and he can’t even handle his own feelings, how is he supposed to trust himself with Ed’s? 

They’d rushed into this. Clearly. Both of them had underestimated and understated the weight of the situation. The solution could be to write it off entirely, to call it a failed experiment. But—

He had liked it, before Ed started… PMSing all over him. And _Ed_ had _really_ liked it. 

So they had rushed in. They’d rushed into worse together. And they’d talked their way out of worse, as well. 

He lets his head flop back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Ugh. Talking. Feelings.

What is Edward _doing_ to him?

***

Roy blinks awake to a strange noise. He'd fallen asleep despairing over Edward. Edward...who is... chewing on his own wrist? 

"Go back ta sleep," Ed hisses at him, through a mouthful of Twizzler. Red flecks spray across the couch. "I saved them for later, they're _mine!"_

**Author's Note:**

> “Mrs Elric-Rockbell?” Roy starts, and then there’s a high pitched screeching in his ear.
> 
> “OH FUCK YEAH!” Winry yells. “I told Ed! He owes me so much head!”
> 
> “Um,” Roy says.
> 
> “From the bottom of my heart, and the top of my vagina, thank you so much Roy Mustang. I believed in you. Give me a high five, you brilliant bastard,” Winry says. She does not pause for her high five. “He’s getting a piercing, anywhere I want it. I love you. Now here’s what you need...”


End file.
